


On Serving The Prince: An Account By Jord Of Vere (with some aid from others)

by Entity_Sylvir



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: AU, Akielon ones included, Auguste Lives, Gen, Guards being bros, Jord being done (but still a bro), M/M, Prince's Guard ensemble, all work but also play makes Laurent not too dull a Prince, interesting things to do while in Akielos, loyal hardworking gossipy bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17427080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entity_Sylvir/pseuds/Entity_Sylvir
Summary: “Jord, do you trust me?”“Yes, Your Highness. Of course.”The Prince shifts, twisting in his chair, and lifts a jacket-clad arm to hold something out. Jord takes a step forward, then sees it’s a horse’s bridle.“Nguhnh,” says Jord, with all the inelegance of someone never raised into the tact of noble society.The Prince’s face is very serious. And then he states, “I want you to sneak this into Prince Damianos’s rooms.”“Huhgnh.”-Prince Laurent has some tasks for his men.





	On Serving The Prince: An Account By Jord Of Vere (with some aid from others)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [L_C_Weary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_C_Weary/gifts).



> My fic for the [2018 Captive Prince Secret Santa](https://caprisecretsanta2018.tumblr.com/)! First time participating in an exchange so I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but my lovely recipient asked for some very fun things that also gave me a chance to explore some more characters than I usually do in this fandom. Twas a great match :D

"Jord,” Prince Laurent says in the crisp lilt of his formal accent, seated at the writing desk of his guest chambers, “do you trust me?”

Even as the Prince is turned away from him, half facing the window on the other side of the room, Jord feels his spine straighten. Without thought, his chin tilts a notch upward. “Yes, Your Highness,” he replies without pause. “Of course.”

The Prince shifts, twisting in his chair, and lifts a jacket-clad arm to hold something out. Jord takes a step forward, then sees it’s a horse’s bridle.

“Nguhnh,” says Jord, with all the inelegance of someone never raised into the tact of noble society.

The Prince’s face is very serious. And then he states, “I want you to sneak this into Prince Damianos’s rooms.”

“Huhgnh.”

“And hang it off the rail of his balcony.”

“Ghhnhuh?”

“By the end of breakfast tomorrow.”

“Uhnnh. Yes.” Jord takes the next few steps forward, and plucks the bridle up. It’s good quality, bright and barely-scuffed leather that holds both the shine that indicates newness and the slight bite of scent that indicates the same.

“Thank you, Jord.”

Jord pauses a second, then bows. “It will be done,” he vows with all the gravity he can muster.

When he straightens, it’s to find the Prince’s expression has softened, falling into a light twist of fondness. His lips quirk, and he gives a small nod. A quick acknowledgement and dismissal. Then he drops his attention back to his writing desk.

Jord turns on his heel, walking in a straight line out of room and back to his post outside. As the door shuts behind him, he blinks, and looks down again at the bridle.

It is always such an honour to be held in his Prince’s regard.

 

* * *

 

Jord takes approximately an hour to realise he does not know what to do.

That is not to say he is unable to think of a way to sneak into a man’s chambers. If the Prince had required him to plant correspondence in a foreigner’s rooms, or an incriminating item, or even poison, he would have understood the stakes and made to organise proceedings accordingly. Amassed the money for bribes, found the right servants to trust. But this, however. This he does not know what weight to give.

So he does the best thing he know to do. He talks to Orlant.

“That’s hot,” is Orlant’s reply.

“What?” is Jord’s.

“Always knew he must be into something twisted.”

“Orlant.”

“Didn’t peg the big Akielon brute for it though, but maybe I should have.”

“Orlant.” Jord resists the urge to rub his temples. “I don’t think it’s for fucking.”

“Eh?” Orlant tilts his head to the side, as if genuinely perplexed. “What else would he use it for?”

“Perhaps. A horse?”

“On his balcony?”

“Well he probably doesn’t fuck on his balcony either. You know how Akielons are.”

“But if he's fucking a Veretian now, eh?”

“I also don’t think a horse bridle would fit—no, it probably would. Anyway.” Jord exhales a breath, very slowly. “The outside of the palace is difficult enough to climb as it is, but the Crown Prince's wing overlooks the cliff. I can find out about the servants who work the royal chambers but—”

“Don’t worry about it, Captain,” Orlant cuts in. “I’ll figure it out.” His toothy grin splits the angular features of his face with surprising brightness. “Anything to help our Prince get some cock.”

 

* * *

 

Jord takes another two hours to find out that by ‘I’ll figure it out’, Orlant had meant ‘I’ll talk to Lazar.’

“That’s not fair,” is Lazar’s reply. “I’ve been telling him for years he can tie me up anytime.”

“How have you not been dismissed?” Jord wonders aloud for not the first time.

“Prince doesn’t dismiss people for thinking he’s the hottest thing our side of Delfeur. Wouldn’t have a man left in Arles to hire if he did.”

“He’d have me,” Jord defends unthinkingly.

“That’s not true,” says Orlant.

Jord looks at him. “Shut up.”

“You talk a lot when drunk.”

“Shut _up_.”

“Make noise a lot in other things too, so you can stop pretending to be a prude—”

“Happens to the best of us, Captain,” Lazar chimes back in, clapping a hand heavily onto Jord’s shoulder. “We don’t mean any disrespect by it.”

Which is true, certainly. In the minds of all of them. For those who’ve served as Prince Laurent’s men, and probably most of the other soldiers around palace at Arles besides, the man’s looks have long ceased to be his most significant feature.

Doesn’t change the fact they have eyes though.

“Anyway,” Lazar continues, “leave it to me.”

Jord raises an eyebrow. “By which you mean what, exactly?”

A wink. “Have a little thing going on with one of the Akielon Prince’s men. He’ll help us out.”

It would be easier than trying to go through a servant whose reaction Jord couldn’t be certain to predict. He asks, “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” Lazar’s gaze drifts away, seeming far away a moment before he grins. “At least, if he says no, I’ll convince him.”

“Alright then,” Orlant says. “Knew we could count on you.

 

* * *

 

All in all, it takes about half a day for Jord to talk to Orlant to talk to Lazar to talk to Pallas. While Damianos and the others are in the main hall for their first meal the next morning, Jord is pleased to be visited promptly by Lazar’s young Akielon guard with the news that it had been done.

“Is this—” Pallas pauses with some hesitation on his way out to say, pronouncing the Veretian words in a carefully passable accent, “—a Veretian thing?”

“No,” Jord replies firmly.

“It can be,” says Lazar, a bizarrely elaborate waggle of his eyebrows interrupting his efficient demolishing of his bowl. With their heavier shift-work while the Prince travels with a reduced guard, he only has a brief dismissal during breakfast before he’s needed back on duty.

“It’s not,” Jord repeats. And just as firmly, “Speak to no one of what we have done.”

“Yes,” Pallas says immediately, a soldier instinctively responding to an order. And then he frowns, as if realising exactly what it was he'd agreed to with such seriousness.

“So it’s not an Akielon thing, then?” Orlant muses once Pallas has left, half to himself and half into his bread and porridge.

Jord doesn’t answer, mostly because he has no idea either.

 

* * *

 

“Good work,” Prince Laurent says crisply in greeting when he calls Jord into his room just following lunch two days later.

Jord bows his head at the praise and lets a small smile touch his lips. He doesn't think of how exactly confirmation of his work had been received, or of what exactly had been done with the item in question. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Crossing to the small table by the couch, the Prince picks up and holds out a glass bottle, plain and clear, filled halfway with a pale liquid that rolls thickly inside its walls.

“Er,” says Jord.

The surface of the glass is slightly sticky to Jord's touch as he closes his fingers around it, the slickness simple and familiar. Oil. With a little extra, judging by the flakes of something else that dot the bottle's contents.

“This,” the Prince begins in his cool, crisp tones, “I want you to put in the private royal training yard.”

“Right,” says Jord.

“By the swords.”

“Of course, “ says Jord.

“Right before Prince Damianos goes to train to tomorrow morning.”

“Naturally,” says Jord.

Prince Laurent lets his own grip fall from the bottle, stepping back away. Jord grasps it more firmly, briefly lifting it to his nose and smelling something faintly spicy from its loosely plugged top. Then he drops his arm to the side, and bows again.

This may be proving to be quite the eventful visit.

 

* * *

 

“Oil,” says Orlant.

“Sword oil?” supplies Lazar.

“That would make real sword oil, not the other sword oil,” points out Orlant. “Also, I don’t think it’s real sword oil.”

“Is it Akielon sword oil?”

“It’s not.” That was the Akielon Pallas. And after supplying that much, thereby proving himself to be the sensible guard among them, he turns to Jord and chirps brightly, “But yes, can get into training yards.”

They’re in an alcove in the gardens, around a corner and mostly surrounded by a line of trees, declared by Jord to be suitably secluded for the discussion of a sensitive task. Jord is still standing, and the others are sitting around him. Or, at least, Orlant is cross-legged by his side. Pallas is half-lounging in the grass, and Lazar more in his lap than on the ground.

“But,” Pallas continues, expression turning thoughtful, “should have someone to train with. In case I’m noticed.”

“No problem,” Lazar leers immediately, and unsurprisingly.

But Pallas is shaking his head. “Visitors not allowed in royal yards,” he says, sounding sufficiently apologetic as Lazar’s expression falls into something that surely isn't a pout because Jord in all his time as Captain of the Prince's Guard has surely never imagined any one of his men could pout like a moody pet.

A moment later though, Pallas brightens again. “But I have friend I can ask!”

“Is he trustworthy?” Jord posits.

The young soldier’s curls bounce ever so slightly around his face as he nods. “Yes! He will help. He has told me he likes the Veretians.”

“Does he now?” cuts in Lazar, grin back on his face. “Is he hot?”

Pallas turns his head. His dark eyes fix on his lover with a look. Then, with what might be some kind of Akielon wrestling move, he throws the other man off him in single sharp motion that Jord finds really quite admirable.

Lazar’s back hits the ground with a dull thud. By the time his protests begin, Orlant is already laughing at him with a vehemence of sound something akin to snorting bull.

Jord asks loudly, “What are you going to tell him?”

Pallas shrugs his broad shoulders and reaches out idly to straighten the hem of his chiton. “That the Veretians are being funny. I think he will be happy you people have,” he pauses finding his words, “—loosened up.”

Without missing a beat, Lazar begins from his place on the ground, “You can loosen me—”

“Very well,” Jord states even more loudly. “We shall trust Pallas to ask his friend.”

 

* * *

 

They meet at the common training grounds after, Orlant away on duty but Jord and Lazar in the middle of a lazily casual morning sparring session when the Akielons arrive, bronzed skin still glistening from the exertion of their own bout. The other Akielon, Aktis, is older and more rugged than his fellow guard. His smile is broad, his mood high as he greets them, either at their accomplishment or at his own participation in the amusing scheme he thinks this to be. Lazar only checks out his thickly-muscled legs about seven times throughout the report of success.

Aktis’s Veretian is a step better than his friend’s, and Lazar informs Jord afterwards that both speak their own tongue with the lilt of the North. Jord's grasp of the language is too poor to be able to tell but he trusts in Lazar's well-travelled savviness, from his time as a mercenary before he'd ambled up North and caught the eye of the Prince and his uncustomary recruitment designs. The two Akielon had most likely served together close to the Veretian border prior to their time in the capital. Their level of receptiveness to their foreign guests bodes well for the state of relations between the countries.

Aktis did address Jord once after the initial introductions, with the low murmur of, “You Veretians seem complicated.” Although after that his mouth had quirked. “But, I tasted the oil and it wasn't poisoned.”

Well, Jord had thought, compared to straightforwardness like that he supposed the statement was true.

Then, the Akielon had added, “It was rather tasty though. Spicy.” And Jord had chosen not to reply to that one.

It takes another two days for Jord to hear from the Prince again regarding their tasks. This time the topic is brought up not long after Jord arrives for his shift at dawn, relieving Lazar from his position outside the door of the guest room for honoured visitors. He’s been at the post for barely two minutes before footsteps sound down the corridor

“Good morning, Jord,” Prince Laurent says, as if it is perfectly normal he be returning now to apparently empty chambers that his guards had been uselessly watching for who knew how long.

To be fair, it _isn't_ a particularly uncommon occurrence for the Prince to slip his guards, sometimes to the carefully hidden exasperation of said guards and often also his brother. At least when the guards in question are Jord. Since the others tend to either not generally bother hiding anything—like Orlant—or not generally get exasperated about anything—like Lazar.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Jord returns as he tries not to blink too obviously at the fact the Prince is dressed in only an undershirt over what appear to be sleep pants. His hair is pulled back in a loose, messy bun and there’s a small bundle of something red under his left arm.

The Prince breezes smoothly into his room as Jord steps aside. There’s a few seconds of silence, and of Jord staring bemusedly after the ornate door as it swings back to its shut position, before the slightly muffled words ring out.

“Well, come inside.”

Jord obeys. He enters to find the Prince by his dresser, picking up from it another red bundle like the one he’s already carrying. Jord is no longer surprised by now to find them both passed to him.

“These,” the Prince states in his firm tone that belies an order, “are to go into the royal baths.”

The two bundles are identical, and one unrolls slightly from Jord’s hand, an end slipping free and falling halfway to the floor. The strip of fabric is long and narrow but fairly thick. Like a strong tie.

“Any—” Jord begins, and pauses briefly to clear his throat, “—any particular part of them?”

The Prince turns away, reaching up to undo the tie around his hair. “I believe Prince Damianos has a personal alcove for his use. By the clothes rack there.”

Jord nods once. It’s low and long. The kind of nod one gives to indicate that whatever one’s interlocutor had just said had made perfect sense.

He rolls the two bundles up more securely into the crook of his elbow as the Prince begins plucking at the already loose laces at his sleeves, hair having been released to fall around his shoulders in gently waves from a handful of tangles as well as its time in a bun. Taking the hint of the man’s intention to go (return?) to bed, Jord accepts this as his silent dismissal.

“Did,” he deigns to say on his way out of the room, “did you—he enjoy our previous efforts?”

The Prince’s gaze flicks over. He's never been averse to being addressed out of turn, Jord supposes one cannot employ the kinds of people he does and be accustomed to strict protocol. Though a life born and bred in the Veretian court hasn’t left him as a generally expressive man, at the moment his blue eyes are bright, his mouth quirked just a little from its usual firm line. Jord has served him long enough to pick up his moods. This is a good one.

“I do believe I enjoyed them more.”

Jord nods again, and reaches one hand out to pull the door open without looking.

He is glad.

 

* * *

 

“The guest rooms are only on the third floor,” Orlant says thoughtfully. “Are there any tall trees around?”

“No.” Aktis is frowning slightly, apparently engrossed in serious assessment of his own palace’s level of penetrability. “They overlook courtyards, not gardens.”

“Did he just distract the guard on duty?” Jord questions, with only a touch of the sternness of his so-called ‘captain voice’.

“No.” Lazar’s reply is mournful. “That was me the whole night.” From his downturned mouth sprouted his usual grin. “Wouldn’t have minded a distraction from His Highness, you know. Eh?”

“Do you ever think about anything else?” Pallas shoots at him, with a roll of his eyes that looks, to Jord, rather frighteningly fond.

Lazar’s grin remains unrepentant as he stretches his legs out lazily across the garden bench he's perched on. “Oi, if he were _your_ Prince you’d be thinking the same thing.”

“I don’t know.” Pallas cocks his head, expression turning pensive for a second, before his face screws up ever so slightly. “He’s a little too—” another pause, finding the right word, searching a few seconds before he settles on, “—blond?”

While Lazar is momentarily occupied with staring at his lover like he’s grown an extra head, Jord suggests, “Are the balconies close together on that side?”

“I thought you said it isn’t possible to climb the outside of the palace?” The remark comes from Orlant.

Jord shrugs, an absent lift of a single shoulder. “I said it would be difficult.” His lips tug to the side. “You know how the Prince never seems to like the word ‘impossible’.”

“It would be difficult,” Aktis agrees with pursed lips. “And one would have to be quite athletic. But, it could be possible to move between them.”

Across from him, Lazar snaps out of his staring, apparently distracted by the image of Prince Laurent athletically leaping from balcony to balcony. It is, to his credit, quite an interesting image. Even to Aktis, judging by the man's own pause, although his interest seems mostly limited to reconsidering his necessary duties as a guard.

“Guess he likes the game,” Orlant muses after a few moments. “Or the cock must be real worth it.”

Pallas opens his mouth, no doubt in preparation for some comment on or defence of his own Prince. Before that begins, Jord waylays him with, “So what exactly are these royal baths?”

Interrupted, Pallas lets his mouth fall back shut with a frown much like his fellow’s. Slowly, he replies, “They may be tricky.”

“The baths are very private, only for the family itself and their most honoured guests,” Aktis elaborates. “And they have their own guards. Not us, palace staff.”

Jord's own brows crease. “You do not have access to them?”

Both Akielons shake their heads.

“Well,” Aktis continues, “we may keep watch outside, but only if requested to remain in addition to the usual palace guards.”

“And of course,” supplies Pallas, “if requested by Prince Damianos, he would be there too.”

There's an assorted round of _hm_ 's at that news from the Veretians, deep in thought but not discouraged. Their Prince has trained them better than that.

Orlant asks after another moment, “How easy would they be to get past?”

A twin pair of shrugs. “As easy as any guards, I suppose,” answers Pallas.

“No balconies though,” Aktis adds helpfully.

Lazar raises a casual hand to stroke his chin, expression finally falling into what constituted seriousness on his face. “The more important question than that,” he says, “is how bad would it be for someone to be caught sneaking into private baths?”

There's a pause, punctuated by a long look between the Akielons. From what Jord can see, it isn't promising.

“Probably worse,” Aktis responds finally, “than we’d like for a joke.”

Jord bites the inside of his cheek. Subtly.

Then, in a flash, Pallas’s face brightens. He turns abruptly to the other Akielon with a rapid few words of their own language, of which Jord just manages to catch the title ‘General’. Whatever they were they brighten Aktis’s features too, and he lets out a pleased bark of laughter.

“Yes,” Aktis says after a moment in Veretian. “This may be good.”

The other three exchange a glance. Orlant’s thick eyebrows twitch.

“Yes?” Jord prompts.

Pallas makes the announcement proudly. “We can ask our General.”

Lazar frowns. “You have a General?”

“Old General,” Aktis corrects. “The one visiting from the North, we fought with him sometimes before. He is a close friend of the King. Has the privilege of the baths.”

Jord blinks, then blinks again when he registers who they are speaking of. General Makedon, like Kyros Nikandros, had been invited to the capital to meet the Veretian delegation due to his prior experience and knowledge of the border. However, unlike Kyros Nikandros the large, bushy-haired—and bearded—General had not spent the bulk of the visit casting studiously wary glances at Prince Laurent from the opposite sides of meeting rooms. Instead, more than one dinner Jord had been on duty had seen him watching over the Prince being enthusiastically and entirely companionably plied with whatever in the Northern Steppes ‘griva’ was, and surprisingly not even turning it all down. One evening had even ended with him requiring a touch—or a lean, in fact—of physical aid to make the walk back to his chambers, an occurrence which had never before transpired in Vere. Whatever line the man laid down for somebody to pass muster, apparently it was different to the Kyros, and apparently their Prince had managed to cross it. It had indeed been proving an interesting visit for them all.

“Would it be wise,” questions Orlant, “to bring an Akielon of such rank into this? Even one who has received Prince Laurent well?”

There’s a jiggle of curls that’s rapidly becoming familiar as Pallas tosses his head. “Not _an_ Akielon,” he states. “This one.” Turning to Aktis he continues, “He has known Prince Damianos since he was a boy, no?”

Aktis grins. “Yes! If there is a joke being played, he will not spoil it. He will want to join in.”

Orlant makes a considering sound, mouth twitching to one side as he looks to Jord in deference for the decision. From his bench, Lazar does the same. Jord rubs his nose.

“You are certain?” The question is directed to Pallas, asked for a second time since the commencement of the Akielon’s involvement, “Is he trustworthy?”

“Oh, yes,” Pallas replies immediately, a smile bright on his lips. His curls bounce again. “Everything is better with General Makedon.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing the Akielon General says to Jord is, “So, you boys can be amusing after all!”

Having not been called a ‘boy’ for at least a decade, Jord opens his mouth, closes it again, then opens it yet again to state, “We appreciate your help.”

General Makedon claps a hand to his shoulder heavily enough that Jord has to tense himself to not stagger under the impact. “Mind you,” he adds, tone suddenly more serious. His accent in Veretian is gravelly. “I did check what you gave me for any funny business.”

“There was nothing more to it,” Jord says mildly to that. “Or on it. Or in it.” Given the nature of Prince Laurent’s usual plans, he isn’t certain if he ought to be proud or ashamed of that fact.

“No,” the General agrees, “there wasn’t.” Then he delivers another near-staggering clap of his hand. “Mind you,” he booms, “might need something even sturdier for our Damen though. Ha ha!”

Deciding that he was not equipped for a discussion on what ‘their Damen’ may or may not need, Jord meets the Akielon’s beaming grin with a more sedate one of his own. “Indeed,” he concedes, and gently extricates his shoulder from underneath that broad palm.

“Do you really think that’s what he’s doing?” Lazar pipes up from behind Jord once the General finally ambles away. Jord doesn’t have to turn around to hear the smirk in the man’s voice. “I mean, are we sure it’s for Damianos?”

Jord says, for lack of any more knowledgeable response, “I generally prefer not to think about what the Prince is planning.”  Because mostly it only gives one headaches.

Right on cue as ever, Lazar chimes back in, “Really? Because I’d _really_ like to think about it—”

Jord walks out of the garden without looking back.

 

* * *

 

This time, it doesn’t take two days.

If Jord had to answer in words what it is like to be Prince Laurent’s Captain—actually, he would say it is of course his utmost honour to serve the Prince, who is and has always been the highest embodiment of his status and his country.

If Jord had to answer in words while drunk what it is like to be Prince Laurent’s Captain, he would probably describe some combination of his Prince’s serpentine mind and oft-hidden but very present shrewd sense of humour. His razor-sharp tongue that helps subtly enclose his firmly-rooted sense of righteousness and compassion, as if just daring anyone to try exploit it as a weakness. Which all makes for a boundless interesting as well as proudly fulfilling career.

(and certainly not his impeccably elegant sense of dress, nor his potentially real or imagined undress, as Orlant—curse that man—certainly should have been too drunk himself to remember)

They’re in the common training yards again mid-morning, with the Prince having decided to join them that day to keep his reflex sharp even while away from home. Pallas is there, and Aktis, and two other men whom Jord vaguely recognises from around the palace. A mix of Veretian and Akielon with their red and blue uniforms and broad and narrower blades.

The figure that interrupts them comes from the palace side of the yard. His bare feet make no sound on the loose sand of the ground, but his size and the intent in his manner cut almost as cleanly as any thumping march. He moves with the air of a man who has stalked all the way in search for another.

“You,” announces Prince Damianos, coming to a standstill halfway across the field. And around him the sparring stops like a plate let drop to the ground.

He wears only his plain chiton, without his sash or cape of state, nor even his sandals. His hair is wet, sodden enough to be dripping a few visible droplets down his face and neck. His hands aren't empty though, instead filled by two familiar red bundles.

To what is possibly both a surprise, but also a complete lack of surprise to everyone around, it is Prince Laurent who replies, “Me?”

The Akielon makes a sound in his throat. “You’ve made your point,” he says. His tone is sharp, though not harsh. “Just like you said at the welcome feast, you can steal the bridle off my horse while I’m riding it, the dressing off my salad while I’m eating it, the belt off my waist while I’m wearing it. And your people can get around my palace without raising any alarm.” He tosses the wet hair from his face like an aggravated stallion. “Although, where did you get the second royal belt?”

Slowly, Prince Laurent lowers his sword all the way to rest the tip of it against the ground. His mouth twitches, more than once, before he says sedately, “I have done no harm to you or your palace.”

The Akielon exhales, shoulders shifting slightly, unstiffening. “I know,” he replies after a beat. “So if your other point is that Vere would make a formidable enemy, but is fortunately now a formidable ally, you have made that too.”

A cock of a sleek blond head, and a slow blink of blue eyes. “Very well.” The response is crisp and only ever so slightly curled with satisfaction.

There’s a long second of silence, the two Princes locked in each other’s attentions and their audience still too bemused to gape. Then, in a breath, the Akielon seems to relax further. His expression changes, flashing through a brief thoughtfulness then into something more open. Almost warmer. His voice is quieter when he begins, “Did—did you really do all this because I tried too hard to impress you the first night?”

Prince Laurent is suddenly very still. Jord recognises that stance of his, the one he instinctively dons in the face of a development he isn’t certain he can predict. His voice is still even as he replies, “You did try too hard.”

The Akielon shifts on his feet. The movement flexes his firmly muscled thighs. “Whereas this,” he makes a general, expansive gesture with his free arm, “is an entirely reasonable amount of effort?”

A blink. “Yes.”

Slowly, very slowly, Prince Damianos smiles.

The training yard is quiet. As quiet as if a good half of its currently occupants have forgotten to keep breathing.

Even more slowly, Prince Laurent’s face slips out from its statuesque set. And his mouth, too, begins to curve.

“Damen?”

The call breaks the atmosphere, of expectation or revelation or whatever it had been exactly. Heads turn, both guard and royal, in unison as a man appears on the field from the same side that Damianos had stamped in from. This one is in a better state of dress, or at least what passes for dress in Akielos anyway. Jord recognises him easily as the elder Prince.

“Damen, I saw you walk past—”

He speaks Akielon, but with the clear and coherent accent of aristocracy, and breaks off as he registers the state of the gathering he’s walked into. He stills, dark brows lifting slightly as he takes in the scene, eyes moving between the men until they come to land on his brother. Then he frowns.

“Hey,” says Prince Kastor, in Veretian. “Is that the belt I couldn't find this morning?

 

* * *

 

“That’s—that’s sweet,” Lazar says once it’s over, the Princes all having left with their respective belts, including the one who had none of his own. The sparring had not restarted, yet. Not with everyone still busy thinking over the Veretian’s departure behind the man who had strode straight from the baths looking for him.

Voice quieter than usual, Lazar continues, “Doing all that stealing and sneaking for someone. I didn’t realise he was so romantic.” Then he looks down. “I’ve never done something that romantic.”

“And that,” Orlant says with all the weight of great wisdom, “is why he never agreed to tie you up.”

“Oh.” Lazar blinks. “Fuck.”

“Don’t worry,” Pallas soothes from beside him. “Fuck is good too.”

Lazar beams.

Orland shifts, bumping his shoulder against Jord’s even as his mouth curves almost absent-mindedly into a grin of his own. “It was romantic though, wasn’t it?” he says. “I mean even if we did half the work there.”

Aktis turns around to face them at that, slowly, with just a little wrinkle creasing the area between his brows. “You Veretians have a strange idea of romance.”

“Yes,” Jord replies immediately, and with all cheer. “We do.” He smiles.

Always an honour to serve his Prince.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

“Nikandros,” Prince Damianos says as his friend enters the room, “do you trust me?"

The Kyros frowns. “Of course, Damen,” he responds promptly, expression earnest as he pulls shut the door behind him.

Damen swallows hard, and takes a long breath. Neither of those disrupt the small smile clinging to his lips. “Do you think I can steal Prince Laurent’s pillow while he’s sleeping?”

There’s a beat. A moment of silence. Then another.

“And get it back here?”

“Ngunhh,” Nikandros says. “Okay. Let me talk to Pallas.”

 

 

_end_

**Author's Note:**

> So, hope you enjoyed my offering for Prince's Guard gossipy adventures and shenanigans, with a side of Laurent's friendship! *blows kiss*
> 
> Find me on tumblr as [arsaces-of-akielos](http://arsaces-of-akielos.tumblr.com).


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